Ten, Reversed
by Tom Beaumont
Summary: NEW CHAPTER! The end was only the beginning. Rated M for violence and language
1. NINE

  


ALIAS – Ten Reversed

[DISCLAIMER: This is an original work of fiction, based on the television series ALIAS, created by J.J. Abrams, and produced by Bad Robot and Touchstone Television.]

  


NINE   


  
Sydney's ears ached from the quiet. And though it wasn't pitch black in the warehouse – the wide windows that lined the walls, broken and unbroken, were allowing the waning sunlight to illuminate the structure as well as could be hoped – it was still a place where the shadows were long and dark and concealing. And Sydney didn't like that one bit.

It was on the edge of one of those shadows that she noticed the familiar shape of a sedan's backend. She kept her weapon out, and one eye on the catwalks overhead, as she sidled ever so cautiously toward the car. As her eyes adjusted, she could see through the rear window. To the edges of the broken safety glass of the driver side window. To the grue that clung to it.

She pushed herself forward, crouching next to the right rear tire, then hugging the edge of the vehicle as she circled around it. Gilchrist's corpse lay just beyond her, his right leg still in the vehicle. It looked like he'd barely set foot out of the car when the bullet smashed through his skull. Working through her distaste, she pulled back the man's coat sleeve to see the four-pointed star tattoo on his wrist. She brushed over it with her thumb, feeling the peculiar octagonal raises in the darker parts. _Dad was right_, she mused. _Thank God I left the pen at the office_, she added. 

That's when she felt heat and pressure against the back of her head. Smelled the acrid mix of burnt gunpowder and oil. Heard the snap of the hammer being pulled back. Then Webber's voice rang in her ears, all iced poison. "Drop the gun, and stand up, Sydney. Slowly." 

Sydney rose, releasing her grip on the pistol. It clattered to the ground, and she heard his foot shuffle to it and kick it across the dusty cement. "I knew your father had been turned," she heard him hiss. "But I didn't want to believe that you - that you were part of it." His voice was a low snarl now. "That you helped him steal the items. You - and that father of yours - you humiliated me."

"I warned you," Sydney replied, in a cool, matter-of-fact way.

"You did," Webber replied. "And now, Syd - now you have to die. Just like him."

She felt the ring of the muzzle push harder against her, like he was bracing his arm for the recoil, and it was then that Sydney's instinct and reflexes took control. She rolled her head forward and to the right, and pushed her energy into the knuckles on her right hand, swinging a backfist squarely into Webber's sternum. In a fluid motion, she then opened that same hand and threw a palm strike right under her would-be executioner's chin, which closed the startled man's jaw.

That shot spun Webber away from her. Sydney moved to take advantage with a punch into one of his kidneys, but he managed to use his momentum to turn back to her, while flipping the gun over in his hand, and he used the force of his motion to club Sydney's still-tender ribs, the weight of the pistol aiding the power of his strike. 

Sydney yelped as the Beretta collided with her, causing her head to drop, taking her trunk with it. She felt the weary creak of the knitting bones in her rib cage, and the sharp spike of pain from a fresh break. She tried to maintain her breath, knowing full well that Webber's next move would be to bring that pistol down on to the back of her head like a sledgehammer. Sensing she had no time to lose, she gritted her teeth, drove her center of gravity forward and up, and sent an uppercut crashing into Webber's jaw, splitting the flesh apart along the bone.

Webber stumbled backward, the piece dropping from his hand. Sydney stepped forward, fired a snap kick into his belly, then followed up with a roundhouse kick against the side of his head, which finally sat Webber on the floor, and hard.

Unfortunately for Sydney, he landed right next to her gun. And he was alert enough and quick enough to grasp it and aim it and squeeze off a round. One that tore through her right shoulder, and took her off her feet.

And right on to Gilchrist's still-warm and pliant body. 

As she lay on the ground, a sleepy haze overtaking her vision, feeling the heat flowing from her shoulder, Sydney realized two things. One, Webber was stunned and beat-up, bloody and woozy, but not dead, and he still had her gun. Sure, his hand was lazy on the grip, but that would change, probably sooner than later. And two, even in death, Gilchrist had managed to hang on to his Glock. Her arms ached from the effort, but she found the strength to take the piece from the dead man's hand, and aim it at Webber.

Webber's chest rose and fell. "Sydney. Please."

She looked at his teary eyes, merely slits in his bloodied and battered face. She felt her shoulder screaming, her chest sobbing. She began to feel waves of pain rolling through her as she breathed. But there was something else, too; that lead slug of hate dissolving, disseminating into her blood, reminding her of friends, colleagues. And her father. All victims of this twisted son of a bitch.

That sleepy haze was gone, replaced by a clarity she had never really known before. 

Webber seemed to realize this. Maybe he could see her face, maybe he could feel her emotional swing. Either way, he was trying to stand up. He was trying to take aim at her again.

Sydney stopped that by putting a forty-caliber round into his right shoulder.

He yowled in pain, and dropped the gun.

Normally, Sydney would have lowered her weapon. She would have cared that he was helpless. She would have felt empathy for another human being in pain. She would have remembered her duty to the agency and brought him in alive.

But nothing was normal now. She knew it, too, because she was still aiming at him. 

Webber's tears were rolling down his cheeks, and mingling with the blood from his gashed jawline. "Don't. Oh, Sydney, please don't," he begged in a choked voice. "You have to understand."

Sydney squared her jaw. "No," she replied. Then she squeezed the trigger, again and again, until she realized that the clip was empty. Then her grip loosened, and the weapon dropped and clattered against the dirty concrete floor. It barely registered in her mind that there were only three shells on the ground near her.

Then she heard the activity outside, orders being barked by desperate voices. One of those voices belonged to Vaughn, she was sure. And that was enough for her to begin to relax, and slip into the gathering dark of unconsciousness that was looming around her. 

Just before she passed out, she took a long last look at Webber. At the tear-streaked face. At the trio of ugly gaping holes in his torso. And she felt the twisting of emotions: it shouldn't have ended this way, but this was somehow the only way it could end. The overriding feeling she had, however, was that even though the Glock was empty, she wished she had another bullet or two she could put into him.

Just to be sure.


	2. EIGHT

ALIAS - Ten, Reversed  


[DISCLAIMER: This is an original work of fiction, based on the television series ALIAS, created by J.J. Abrams, and produced by Bad Robot and Touchstone Television.]

_EYES ONLY / RESTRICTED PERSONNEL_

OPERATION SYNOPSIS:

OAD requests the assistance of agents outside the division re possible infiltration

Target(s) UNSUB

LIMITED extreme action required

Op day-and-date IMMINENT

OPERATION OBJECTIVE(S):

(1) VERIFY infiltration; strict protocol adherence STRONGLY ADVISED, per DIR1991.9.01. 

(a) [OAD NOTE: Verification completed 19 Sept / concurred by OAD 19 Sept]

(2) IDENTIFY infiltrator(s) and methodology, using, but not limited to, appropriate threat assessment and identification protocols. 

(a) [See AIP1988.3.19a - d, see also AIP1992.4.06b, see also Appendix D, same doc #]

(3) ELIMINATE infiltrator(s), using, BUT NOT LIMITED TO, appropriate measures and / or force, per DIR1998.11.18 (rev. 2002). 

(a) [OAD NOTE: Discretion deferred to on-site AC / SAC by OAD 21 Sept]

NOTE(S):

(1) On-site AC / SAC to be determined

(2) Op-Tech: SOPs apply; non-standard tech subject to approval by on-site AC / SAC 

Signed and dated this 21 Sept,

signature

Frank Travers

Assistant Director, Oversight

Cc(s): Bristow, Jack 

Bristow, Sydney

Dixon, Marcus

Mackey, George

Neville, Catherine

Sterling, Richard

Vaughn, Michael

_EYES ONLY / RESTRICTED PERSONNEL_

EIGHT

Sydney found Jack curled on the pavement behind his car. It was her worst fear, now real and horrifying and right before her eyes. His body was clenched, and blood was flowing from his wounds, wetting and spreading across his suit jacket, and beginning to pool on the cold concrete beneath him. 

"Dad!" she exhaled. Sydney had to keep herself from crying out, even as she wished she could. She dropped to a knee next to his wrenched form, her eyes scanning the blank windows all around her. "Hold on, okay? Just - "

He labored for a breath. "Didn't see. Didn't – aggh." 

"Try not to talk," she said, her voice cracking. She inhaled deeply, all but ignoring the grinding of her ribs, then forced the breath out as she spoke into the microphone on her collar. "Freelancer to Base, copy."

A voice broke through her earpiece, one she didn't recognize. "Go, Freelancer."

"Code three," she responded. "I need an emergency vehicle dispatched to the location of this transmission, over."

The responder almost sounded confused. "Say again."

Fear and frustration leaked into Sydney's tone. "Man down!" she hissed. "Dispatch to this location!"

Jack groaned and coughed. There was a wheezing sound to it that was beyond disturbing to Sydney. Still, she tried to keep her voice calm. "Okay, Dad. I'm here. I'm here."

Webber's voice landed on her other ear. "Jesus. Sydney, what happened?"

__

Sydney's heart skipped a beat. _Where did he come from?_ Sydney pressed her hands onto Jack's torso, trying to stem the bleeding. "I don't know. Dad and I had Gilchrist, and then we split up, and the next thing I know, Dad's shot and Gilchrist is gone."

At the mention of the name, Webber knelt next to Jack as well. "Jack. Was it him?"

Jack swallowed hard, then nodded.

"Do you know where he went?" Webber's question seemed almost gleeful to Sydney. 

Another swallow. Then Jack gritted his teeth and grunted, "Warehouse. Eighteen. That way," as a shaky hand tried to gesture a direction. 

Webber smirked. "Stay with your father, Sydney. The bastard's mine." With that, he took off in the direction Jack had indicated.

Sydney watched him go, then turned to Jack once again. "Dad? I thought you didn't – "

Jack forced the word out through clenched teeth. "Webber."

She pressed her hands onto his. "He's gone, Dad. He's after Gilchrist."

Jack's breaths shortened. "Catch him."

Sydney felt hot streams rolling down her cheeks. "I can't leave you."

Jack's eyes opened, and even though it was through a squint, she could feel the intensity of his glare. "Sydney," he hissed through his clenched jaw. "Webber's the guy." And with the last burst of energy he had, he showed her the watch on his wrist.

With that, she rose from her crouch and began to sprint, ignoring the whining of her ribcage.

Gilchrist hated the waiting. It was taking too long for Jack to show up. He had said six. Six o' clock at the warehouse. But according to the softly glowing clock on the car radio, it was now quarter-past, and no one had come, for better or worse. He drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel, and glanced at the rearview mirror again. His eyes shifted to the pistol in his lap, ready to fire again. It gave him no comfort.

That's when he saw the door's shadow shift, and the shaft of light expand and contract on the floor. Gilchrist exhaled. _Finally_, he thought, popping open his car door with his left hand, and gripping the weapon in his right. And just as he was setting one foot on the ground, and poking his head out into the dusky air, a bullet blasted through his skull, ending his concerns about the future once and for all.

Sydney had stopped counting the blocks after the twelfth. The abandoned warehouse was still ahead of her, but at least now it was in sight. She shortened her stride a bit, trying to slow her pace, allowing her to take control of her breath again. She wasn't in much pain anymore, because her injury had been replaced by other thoughts. She wanted to rid herself of them. To force her memories away. 

She was trying not to think about her father, in a fetal position, warm red life flowing through his coat on to a cold gray slab of concrete.

Or about Mackey's throat, sliced open right before her eyes.

Or Neville and Sterling, who discovered too late that they'd cast their lot with a con man.

And then she realized she shouldn't forget them. Those memories were solidifying her nerve, and forming a lump of hate, cold and hard like a chunk of lead, right where she needed it to be, at exactly the right time. Because that's when she heard the crack of the gunshot echoing from the building not ten feet from her.

Sydney dropped into a crouch as she jogged up to the building, then flattened herself against the warehouse wall, right by the door.

She slipped her weapon from its holster, deftly chambered a round, and forced one last deep breath into her lungs.

Then she let her breath out and opened the door.


	3. SEVEN

TEN, REVERSED

OAD DOC #4/63/C – NOT FOR PUBLIC CONSUMPTION

RELEASE AUTH TO INTEL COMM: 4 Jun

DOC NOTE: What follows is a transcript of secure internet communications between Special Agent George Mackey, FBI, and Special Agent Catherine Sterling, FBI, dated 30 Oct, at 1345 GMT. 'Item One' refers to Oversight Exhibit # 172-A (one 1 black fountain pen). 'Item Two' refers to Oversight Exhibit # 172-B (one 1 men's titanium wristwatch). Also be advised that certain portions of the communication have been censored per agency security regulations regarding on-going operations. (See DIR2002.21.4a-d)

remote access requested

request pending – enter password

password entered

password approved – open or closed?

closed access requested

secure transmission

encrypt v. CENSORED

authorization code: CENSORED

answered

secondary

answered

STERLING: How's Halloween in Tokyo?

MACKEY: As thrilling as Arbor Day. But only two days left. Then LA, then home to DC.

STERLING: How's your temporary partner doing?

MACKEY: Not too shabby. Helps that she can speak the language.

STERLING: Is that a shot?

MACKEY: Don't be so sensitive. CENSORED doesn't speak English. Insists on Japanese. And mine is lousy.

STERLING: Back to Berlitz for you.

MACKEY: Sydney's handling all the questions. Thank Jack for making sure his daughter learned Japanese dialectic variations.

STERLING: I'd guess she did that on her own.

MACKEY: Speaking of, Sydney just walked in. She says hi.

STERLING: Hi back. Anything to report?

MACKEY: Nothing on Item Two. We're close on One. CENSORED is meeting us in about four hours.

STERLING: Is overwatch in place?

MACKEY: Negative. No overwatch.

STERLING: Very funny.

MACKEY: No joke. CENSORED is a nervous type. Keeps threatening to vanish.

STERLING: Used my Full Faith and Credit of the US Government speech yet?

MACKEY: Sydney's dealing with the contact, remember?

STERLING: Then give it to her. Works every time with the edgy contacts.

MACKEY: Sounds like you've dealt with those before.

STERLING: Ask my current partner.

MACKEY: Ha-ha.

STERLING: CENSORED

MACKEY: CENSORED

STERLING: CENSORED

MACKEY: I don't want any part of that.

STERLING: Seriously. Get the details on Item One and get home. Partner's orders.

MACKEY: See you in LA, Cath.

STERLING: Bye, George.

disconnect

end communication

SEVEN

Baltimore, MD

16 December

Gilchrist studied himself in the mirror. He hadn't realized that he looked as fatigued as he did. He had always tried to give the appearance of a man aware and alert. It was usually successful because it was usually true. Nearly thirty-five years of service, and he hadn't failed to be that man. In Stalingrad, Peking, Havana. He was the one that was respected, even feared. The dark suit he was wearing now, it was almost the same as one he'd worn in East Berlin in 1983, smuggling microfiche that would give the free world an upper hand in the Cold War. The memory of that brought a rush of warmth to his cheeks.

But as he noticed the spidered redness of the blood vessels, and the sagging skin under his eyes, and the frown lines that pulled at the corners of his mouth, he discovered the man he'd become. Martin Gilchrist was just another worn out body, set in motion by forces he could have avoided - or at least deflected - when he was younger and stronger. Now he was acting in desperation, struggling to prop himself up on a reputation that should have been deflated a decade ago.

He straightened his tie. Enough navel-gazing, he decided. Time for work.

Gilchrist reached into his overcoat and found the pistol. He dropped the clip into his hand, and eyeballed it. "Three bullets," he muttered. "Hope that's enough." Then he snapped the clip back into the weapon, and put it away. He gave his face one last look in the mirror, and then he left his room, taking nothing else with him.

Jack pretended to read the editorials again, giving the appearance to most passers-by that he'd found a particular paragraph that he wanted to absorb. Nearly four-thirty in the afternoon, and Gilchrist still hadn't come down from his hotel room. _What was he waiting for_, Jack thought, _an engraved invitation?_

No earpiece, no handler. No net. _Just me and my wits_, he thought. _Like the good old days._ He could feel his heart beating. Always a good sign. And when the elevator doors opened, and he saw Gilchrist striding across the lobby, he almost smiled. Almost.

Gilchrist was buttoning his overcoat as he stepped into the cold, clear December air outside the hotel. As he disappeared from sight, Jack rose from his seat, and tucked the newspaper under his arm. Then, after a quick glance back at the door, he made his way to the elevator.

Sydney pushed open the diner door. The warm inside air washed over her, and her nose caught the scents of coffee and various fried meats. There was music playing – a bluesy Christmas tune that fit the environment. With a slight turn of her head, she found Weiss, sitting at the lunch counter, overcoat draped across the stool on his right. His head shifted just as she was finding him. "Come on in, Sydney. It's Hot Dog Day," he said, to no one in particular.

She walked over to the counter, around the inconveniently placed cardboard Santa Claus, a less-than-jolly HO-HO-HO scrawled across a speech balloon attached to his hat. Sensing her approach, Weiss moved his coat onto his lap. "I'm not sitting," she said.

"If you found the time to come, you have time to sit," Weiss said. He drummed his right hand on the red vinyl seat.

Sydney groaned a bit, but acquiesced. "Why did you ask me here?" she asked, leaning close to him.

"Thought you might want to eat," Weiss said flatly. "Being on a stakeout, keeping an eye on Gilchrist for me and all. Which is damn decent of you, by the way. You sure you won't have something? My treat." He took a loud slurp from his coffee cup.

Sydney snorted. "I can't believe this. I had to tell my dad that your call was urgent office business; that was the only way he'd let me leave. And since I'm not hungry, and you're pissed at me for God-knows-whatever, would you mind telling me what I'm doing here so I can get back?"

Weiss finished his hot dog, then grabbed a paper napkin from the dispenser in front of him, jostling it. He wiped mustard from the corner of his mouth, then balled the napkin and dropped it on the countertop like it disgusted him. "Your dad's fucking with me. And I'm really quite tired of it," he said.

"What do you mean? How's he fucking with you?"

"You were there. How he pushed me and Webber out of the meeting yesterday. 'The agency doesn't need loose cannons,' he said. Sorry to stoop to mixed metaphors, Syd, but your dad calling me a loose cannon, that's the old pot and kettle discourse." Weiss grabbed for his coffee cup, shaking his head.

"He's trying to keep the circle small. In case something goes bad."

"Like Tokyo? Or Dublin? Keeping the circle small did nothing for them."

Sydney sighed. "Things happen in our line of work that we can't predict. Or change."

"I heard that speech before. Mike tried to give it to me after Cathy and Rick got blown to the four winds. But he's only got words. Same as you, or anybody else in that small circle. Webber, on the other hand, has a solution. He knows that two-faced bastard has to die. And he's ready to get it done. Unlike the rest of you." He looked straight into his empty plate.

"What two-faced bastard? Who are you talking about?" Sydney asked.

"God damn Gilchrist."

"Gilchrist?" Sydney frowned. "There's no proof that he's the traitor."

Weiss grimaced. "Who was it that set up Cathy and Rick, then, huh?"

Sydney scowled. "There's no proof of that, either."

"Well, aren't you fine and upstanding," he said sadly. He tapped the American flag pin on her collar. "Talking about proof like you can't see it right in front of you. Equality and liberty and justice for all. I swear to God, Syd, the things that make you so damned lovable also make you really damn annoying," he sneered.

Sydney chuckled humorlessly. "Look, Eric. I get that you're not happy. I'm not happy, either. But going rogue is not the answer."

Weiss growled, but Sydney was not to be interrupted. "Dad and I, we are this close to getting the evidence that Gilchrist is the double. This close," she said, indicating with a thumb and forefinger. "But if anyone interferes, he'll vanish, and we'll never bring him in." She looked him square in the eye. "And in case you forgot, I was in Dublin, too. And I've got the x-rays to prove it." She stood up as the waitress approached with the coffee pot. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get back before my father suspects anything."

As the door chimes rang behind him, Weiss watched the steamy stream of rich brown liquid pour into the beige mug. Then he said, with a small smile not intended for anyone he could see, "Someone owes me a steak."

Jack slipped the fake key card into the lock, and watched the light change from red to green. He pushed on the handle, and the heavy door opened, just like it should. He pocketed the card and let the door close behind him. He checked his watch by the shaft of light coming through the edges of the curtained window. Forty-five minutes until he was supposed to meet up with Sydney. About an hour-and-a-half until they grabbed up Gilchrist. And then this nonsense would be finished.

As long as there was a watch in the night table, he thought. Jack grabbed the textured metal and pulled the drawer open. He ticked the items off, like they were on a list: one Gideon bible, one room service menu, and one men's titanium watch. He rolled up the left sleeve of his dark overcoat, and released the clasp of the watch he was wearing.

In the seconds that it took him to switch his watch for Gilchrist's, he thought about all the people who had died for it. _For a God damn watch_, he thought. He felt the twinge of regret he knew he'd eventually have to deal with. It wasn't just survivor's guilt. It was knowledge: he could have, probably even should have, done more. And sooner. Should have fought harder. Should have talked louder.

He looked at the watch he'd been wearing, and compared it for a moment to the one from the drawer, which was now fastened around his wrist. Then he slammed the drawer shut before he lost himself in contemplation, and found the door.

Webber pulled into a space down the street from the hotel. Jack's car was four stalls away. A small grin crept across his face. _Thank you, Agent Weiss_, he thought. He pulled a flip phone from his pocket and dialed. "Tell Arvin Sloane that I want to talk to him," he said, sliding his pistol from its holster.

A pause, as Webber watched the revolving door. He set the pistol on his lap, and connected an earpiece. Then he laid the phone on the passenger seat, and picked up the gun once more. As he dropped the clip into his hand, and began to load it, Sloane's voice came through the speaker. "Mr. Webber, this is not a good time."

Each round snapped into place as he spoke. "No, it isn't. I'm sitting outside a hotel in Baltimore, waiting for Jack Bristow to pop his pompous mug in front of my crosshairs. So if you want to bid on the device, you need to do it now."

Sloane's voice was cold. "How do you intend to retrieve it? I doubt Jack will just give it to you."

"You're right, Arvin." Webber slipped the clip back into the Beretta. "If all else fails, I'll just cut off his hand."

"Then you're planning on killing him?"

The corners of Webber's mouth turned upward. "Call it a fringe benefit."

"You'd better also kill Sydney, then. Because if you kill one and not the other, it won't matter how much money you have, or where you choose to hide, or how good a shot you think you are. You will never be safe again." Sloane's voice was almost sing-song toward the end.

The little smile went away. "So glad you're concerned about me. Are you bidding or not?"

"You have my bid. Ten million dollars for each item."

Webber sighed in frustration. "Don't try to low-ball me. Twenty's the lowest I'll consider, and everybody knows that."

"Then you'll price yourself right out of the market."

"I've already got three offers of twenty-five or better," Webber said.

"Then I suggest you take one of those, and stop wasting my time," Sloane said. Then a soft click, and the earpiece was silent.

"Fine, Arvin," Webber said. "I'll live." Then he opened his door, and strolled over to Jack's car.

"Agent Vaughn?" a voice was asking as Michael stirred. He couldn't believe he'd fallen asleep on a puddle-jumper. He rubbed his eyes and saw the scrubbed boyish face of an analyst whose name was escaping him just now. "Agent Vaughn? Your pocket's buzzing," the younger man said.

Michael yawned as he fished a phone from his coat. "Vaughn here," he said.

"It's Dixon. My office just received an encoded transmission from someone claiming to be Arvin Sloane."

"Sloane? Was it him?"

"I think so. According to Marshall, it was sent through an SD-6 server that's been inactive since the CIA raid, and the encryption was one that was specifically designed for Sloane, so only he could have accessed it."

"So it is him, then. What did he want?" he asked.

Dixon was quiet for moment, then said, "To give you his phone number."

"Why would I want to call him?" Vaughn barked.

"Apparently, he knew you'd say that. He left a message for you."

And then, Dixon began to read.

Vaughn's face turned ashen as he listened, then he grabbed the analyst by the arm. "Get your phone. Dial this number right now. Nine-oh-nine. One-three-five. One-eight-two-two."

"One-eight-two-two. Why am I doing this?" the smooth-faced man asked as he pressed buttons.

"Because a lot of people are about to die."

The other man froze. "Die? What?"

Vaughn handed his suddenly nervous colleague his own phone, and pulled the other from the man's grip. It was beginning to buzz on the other end. He leaned forward to the pilot. "Call Langley right now," he said. "Tell them I need to have a strike team assembled and ready to roll as soon as we arrive."

Then Michael looked over at his new best friend. "What's your name?"

"My name?" His eyes danced for a moment, like he had been asked the meaning of life. "Henry. Henry Long."

Vaughn listened to the phone buzz. "Well, Agent Long, I need you to do two things."

The man still seemed dazed. "What?"

"First. Go through my Frequent Numbers list. Find Sydney Bristow and Eric Weiss. Call them both. And the second thing I need you to do is hold on to this." With that, Vaughn pulled a black fountain pen from the inside of his coat and slid it into the other man's shirt pocket. "If you let it out of your sight, I will kill you," he said. "And I am not kidding about that."

Jack had barely made it to his car when he heard Webber's voice. "Gee, Jack, I'd have thought you'd be more observant. Especially so close to the holidays."

He turned his head to see Webber, his back against the cold brick of the building's front. He was smirking, his weapon held low and pointed toward Jack. "I bet you want to check my aim. Go for your gun, and we'll find out how good I am," Webber said.

"I don't have a gun," Jack said. "But I do have witnesses galore in that lobby. Eventually, they will see you, whether you have the balls to shoot me or not."

"I guess we should find a more private spot for a conversation." Webber gestured at the car. "You drive."

"Agent Vaughn," Sloane said. "I'm glad you called me back. I half-expected you to ignore me."

Smug bastard, Vaughn thought. "I'm still tempted to. But your message – "

"No matter our differences, we both have a vested interest in keeping certain people alive. I know the mind of your mole; he's greedy and cocky and ruthless. I also know that the last time you thought you had him cornered, some of those certain people were needlessly endangered. I've been reverse-tracking him through his cell phone, and in a moment I'm going to transfer that information to you."

"Why would you do that?"

"Because I can't do anything to help them."

The phone in Vaughn's hand beeped. He stole a glance at the viewscreen. It was a map of Baltimore with a small blip moving gradually over a represented street.

"Do you see it?" Sloane asked.

"What am I looking at?" Vaughn asked.

"Your traitor." Sloane's voiced darkened. "Hurry, Mr. Vaughn." And then he was gone.

Sydney stalked down the sidewalk to her car. She was still steamed at Weiss. No one understood how he felt about Dublin? He didn't know what Sydney did. Hell, he hadn't been standing twenty feet from Cathy when her cab was ripping apart in an explosion. Weiss had been eight blocks away. Sitting at a monitor, completely out of harm's way. He didn't see a damn thing. Not like she had, anyway. The jackass had no right to whine.

During the middle of her inner monologue, Sydney's heel caught the edge of a crack in the concrete, causing her to stumble a bit. She gritted her teeth as one of her ribs shifted.

She stopped in her tracks, and put a hand on her side. She pushed a breath out through her teeth. Sydney shook her head, a bit ashamed. Why was she angry with him? Eric and Cathy had been friends for nearly ten years. And Richard, too, for about the same amount of time. And he had been there. No, not at the epicenter of the tragedy, but close enough to hear it. Close enough to know that people he cared about were dead. That there was nothing he could do about it.

But it was his attitude that worried her. If he was working with Webber, then he was putting his career – and maybe even his life – squarely in front of a speeding train. Travers had made it clear that the agency wasn't going to let Webber run riot much longer. Revenge is not CIA business, he'd said. And for once, she had agreed.

It was then that her phone rang. "Yeah," she said.

"Sydney," Vaughn said, his voice trying to wade through pops and crackles.

"Vaughn? What's going on?"

"...oh...eb...need to...stay...." The noise was worsening, and his words were even more garbled the more he tried to say.

"Michael? Michael?!"

The noise subsided for the briefest moment. "Syd? I hope you get this." His throat sounded tight.

"Get what?" she asked, just as her phone beeped.

"...you see it?" he asked.

"What?" she asked. Then she took a look at the viewscreen on her phone, and felt a shot of pure terror race up her spine, and began to race to her car. Her ribcage creaked and whined, but she didn't really feel any physical pain at that moment.

"Sydney?! Sydney?!" Vaughn shouted into the phone.

"Did she get it?" Long asked.

"I don't know. I lost her. Did you get through to Weiss?"

"No. The system said he's out of the calling area, whatever that means. But there's a message on your voice mail, and it's from his number."

Vaughn snatched the phone from Long's fingertips and punched in his passcode. Weiss's voice was clear as day. "Mike. I'm meeting Sydney. Check your e-mail, see if she got her present."

Vaughn scrolled through the menu. Then he opened the e-mail Weiss had sent. It was a map of Baltimore, similar to the one Sloane had sent. But this one was of a different section of the city. And this blip had Sydney's ID number next to it.

He bolted forward toward the pilot again. "Get us on the ground!" he shouted over the engines, as he dialed again.

"What do you want me to do?" Long asked, the cobwebs appearing to clear.

Vaughn slapped a two-way radio into Long's hand. "Handle the mission! If an agent calls, you're the controller!"

Long swallowed hard. "But Agent, I've never – "

Vaughn grabbed the other man by the neck. "Just do the fucking job – "

"Or you'll kill me. Got it." With that, Long pressed the receiver into his ear, and Vaughn loosed his grip, leaving long impressions on the other man's trachea.

Jack's car rolled to a stop next to an abandoned warehouse. Webber shook his head. "You always pick the nicest locations for covert rendezvous."

Jack snorted. "So when do you get past being a punk, and just pull the trigger?"

"Jack, Jack, Jack. That's no way to talk to a man who's led so many others to their maker. You really ought to be more polite." Webber leaned forward. "Where's your little angel?"

"I don't know." Jack scanned the outdoors for a moment. "She got a phone call from Langley, then took off. Promised to meet me here."

"When?"

"Five-thirty, and no later." Jack's eyes met Webber's via the rearview mirror. "But I wouldn't be worrying about Sydney at this moment."

"I'm not. See, Jack – I'm only going to kill you," Webber replied, a dark smirk on his lips.

Jack didn't see the muzzle pressed against the back of his seat. Didn't hear the hammer strike. But he did feel the searing heat and sharp pain of a bullet piercing his back, and tearing through his ribcage, and finally popping through his chest, just below his sternum. He watched it exit him, spiraling in slow motion, as if it were a naturally-occurring chunk of lead going its merry way into the dashboard. He felt his bladder give, and tasted nothing but his own heavy, hot blood.

Webber pulled Jack from the car and tossed him onto the ice-cold sidewalk. Jack moaned as he hit the ground. "Get used to the slab, Jack," Webber said. "You're going to be dead a long time."

He trained his weapon squarely between Jack's eyes as he reached down and pulled back Jack's coat sleeve. Webber's eyes met the gleaming watch, and all the blood drained from his cheeks. "You fucking _liar_," he said. "Where is it? Where's the device, you lying sack of shit?!"

Jack's body wheezed and groaned, but no words came out.

Webber was beginning to foam at the mouth. "Tell me where it is, you fuck, or I'll wait right here for Sydney. I swear that I'll splatter Sydney's brains all over your soon-to-be corpse."

Jack was drooling dark blood on to the gray of the sidewalk. "Gilchrist," he managed to say.

"Arrogant asshole," Webber spat. "Tell me where he is, Jack. Tell me or as soon as she shows, she dies. And you'll get to watch."

A buzz from Jack's pocket interrupted Webber's lupine rage. "Holding out on me, Jack?" he shouted. Webber patted Jack's overcoat, and found a PDA in one of the pockets. "Very pretty," Webber snorted. "Always loved the little CIA presents myself." Webber tapped the spinning "M" on the corner of the screen to activate it.

And there was Sydney's blip, no more than two blocks away. Webber's head snapped to attention. He suddenly became aware of the sounds of squealing tires and screeching brakes, terrible noises echoing all around him.

He turned back to see Jack, the older man's face grayer now. ," Jack half-gurgled. "...sn't...she...?"

Webber sneered. "She sure is." He pulled the hammer back on his pistol, then snapped the safety into place. "You stay right there, Jack. Sydney'll be here any second. Then I'll come back, just like I was never here, and you'll tell me. Won't you, Daddy? For your baby girl?" And then he took off like a shot.

As he heard Webber's feet collide with the sidewalk as he ran away, Jack felt a strange, warming calm. Maybe he was being left to die in the street. Maybe Webber was just going to come back and finish him off. All Jack knew was that Sydney was going to get the son of a bitch at last. And that one thought put a small smile on Jack's lips. At that very moment, Jack Bristow didn't really care if he lived another minute or not. The books were about to be balanced, once and for all, and nothing else mattered.

Nothing at all, Jack underlined. He was feeling a blanket of dark floating over him, and his eyes wanted to close, but Jack forced himself to stay awake. No sense checking out until he knew Webber was good and dead. Even while bleeding to death on a sidewalk, Jack Bristow was still a logical man.


	4. SIX

**ALIAS:** Ten, Reversed

**  
**

**CIA Oversight Office Refuses to Release Documents**

'**Risk to Operatives Too Great,' Says Asst. Dir.**

From wire reports 

Frank Travers, an Assistant Director for the CIA's Oversight Office, informed the Senate Intelligence Committee in a letter delivered to Chairman Bob Wilbur's office yesterday that a "significant number" of classified documents that were requested by counsel would not be released by him or anyone within that office. The number, according to sources close to the committee, could be as high as two hundred individual memoranda, dossiers, field reports, and other miscellaneous files. Travers, a nearly thirty-year veteran of the U.S. law enforcement and intelligence communities, said in the letter that he believed "the risk to operatives currently in the field is simply too great to allow these documents to be used in an investigation that should have been completed two months ago."

Since March, the committee has been investigating the deaths of several American intelligence operatives, as well as the deaths of four operatives working for various foreign agencies, all of which occurred between late September and early December of last year. Over the past few weeks, as disturbing stories surfaced in the media about two of those killed – Frank Webber, a former CIA officer, and George Mackey, an FBI agent – there has been mounting pressure both from inside and outside the committee to uncover the facts surrounding these deaths.

Travers, however, insisted in his signed letter, dated this past Tuesday, that the documents would "shed no light on specific circumstances," but instead would jeopardize operations designed to bring about the end of terrorist activities "in both foreign and domestic theaters."

Committee Chief Counsel Ed Huang released a statement shortly after the letter was made public, declaring Travers's unwillingness to release the documentation as "a first step to a contempt of Congress citation." He repeated his request, and added that he would give Travers "one final chance to do the right thing."

A.D. Travers was unavailable for comment.

**

* * *

**

**SIX**

**SOMEWHERE IN NEBRASKA**

Vaughn stirred, and as he moved his head, felt a spike of pain in his neck. He reached up to apply some pressure to it, and felt the tackiness of blood and the cold blast of wind on it. His mind stumbled to remember events as he tried to loosen the tensed neck muscles.

_Snowstorm. No visibility. A patch of ice._

Vaughn finally realized that he was still in his seatbelt. He reached for the release button and pressed it, hard, and felt his weight flop on to the ceiling. He felt his shoulder pop when he hit, and let out a loud groan.

_Lefcourt. Going too fast. Brakes locked up. _

"Hang on," the man had said, just as they caught the edge of a telephone pole.

Vaughn noticed the Suburban was upside-down in a snowy ditch. The windows had been broken out. And that Lefcourt was missing from his seat.

Panic flowed freely into his belly. He patted his pockets.

_Oh, Jesus, no…_

**

* * *

**

**NEW YORK**

"Vaughn! Respond!" Dixon was shouting into his headset.

"He's gone, sir," Marshall said. "Signal's – signal's dead."

Dixon ripped the headset from his scalp and slammed it against the tabletop. He sat with his head down, staring silently at the screen where they'd been tracking Vaughn's movements. Finally he looked over at Marshall, who was staring helplessly at him. "We need to find him," he said.

"Mr. Dixon – I don't know if – " Marshall tried to respond, his voice choked.

"Marshall. _We need to find him_," Dixon responded, his voice flat and grim.

* * *

"What do you mean, 'Sydney went with Webber'?" Jack said, his face turning the most awful shade of crimson. His upper lip was quivering toward a sharp sneer. 

The young agent felt a chill shoot through him. "She just – I didn't – "

"I hope you've enjoyed your employment in the New York office, because your next stop is a listening post in Nome," Jack hissed. "Pack warm." He turned his back on the now-ghost-faced junior agent, and put a hand on the shoulder of the female tech officer. "I need you to find Sydney Bristow's frequency, immediately."

The tech typed furiously, but to no avail. She shook her head. "I'm sorry, sir. That frequency is non-responsive."

"Agent Bristow," said Weiss, brushing past the slack-faced soon-to-be Alaskan who was slinking away from the desk. "There's a reason she's not transmitting. We were trying to see – "

Jack spun to face him. "We? Who's we?"

"Sydney and me," he said. "We had a hunch about these sellers, that they might be connected to the mole."

"Someone might have shared that hunch with me," Jack replied.

"There wasn't time. Webber wanted to meet them right away," Weiss replied.

"You've read the file?"

"Yes, sir."

Jack frowned. "Then you know that they're a mercenary band of thieves, and a particularly ruthless one at that."

"Sir, we believed we had a shot at extracting some information," Weiss replied. "It jumped off too fast, I admit, and we should have come to you, but Webber said he knew their boss."

"And that gave you permission to circumvent authority?"

"Under the time constraint – "

"Listen closely, Agent Weiss," Jack said, his eyes shooting daggers. "You, my daughter, Agent Webber – you've all endangered a critical internal investigation, and making matters worse now, lives are in the balance. So perhaps you can appreciate my anxiety, and will endeavor to locate our agents. Because while Nome isn't the biggest outpost we have, there's always room for one more."

* * *

Henri wasn't smiling. That wasn't an unusual sight, Webber reasoned, but there was something about his expression that seemed extra-grim. He thought about bringing Sydney out from her post, but decided against it. 

"My friend," Henri said. He didn't sound convinced.

"You have the item I want?" Webber asked.

"Naturally." Henri set a briefcase on the barrier between them. "And you have my money."

A smile from the agent. "You know the drill," he said.

"Of course." The Frenchman released his grip on the case.

Webber reached into his coat and withdrew a manila envelope. "Five hundred thousand. In our standard form." He set it next to the case, and Henri snatched the brown paper into his palm. _This is the point in the meeting,_ Webber thought, _where Henri usually says goodbye and walks away. As soon as he's gone, I'll bring Sydney up to verify the item_, he added. _It won't be the right watch, of course. She'll pursue Henri, and then the gunfight, and the sudden tragic wounding –_

Except the other man didn't say goodbye. Instead, he stood almost perfectly still. "This watch – it must be some prize for you."

Webber studied the Frenchman's eyes, their color shrouded in the dim yellow light, looking for hints. What more did this bastard want? "You know I want the watch, Henri, and that the money is as good as it's ever been. Why drag me down here? I could pay you in some much more pleasant surroundings." He set the case on its side, and popped open the locks.

"Because, Mr. Webber," came the reply, "I haven't forgotten the last time we worked together."

* * *

Vaughn dragged himself from the cab of the vehicle, straight into the heavy, wet drift. The cold of the white snow stung his fingers and the wind ripped across his exposed skin. He took deep breaths, trying to shield himself from the blowing and drifting precipitation. The sky was still somewhat light, but the visibility was practically zero. He pulled himself up to something of a standing pose, and began to trudge through the snow. He took another breath, finding some strength in the act. 

As he pushed himself through the snow, he discovered hollows in the drifts. _Lefcourt_, he thought. He gritted his teeth against the knifing wind and began to follow the footsteps.

* * *

"Wait a second," Marshall said. "There's something moving. Same coordinates as Vaughn's." 

"Is it him?" Dixon asked.

"No, it's a different transceiver code. I was scanning frequencies to find our common ones. It's little-used, and kinda weak," Marshall said. "But I can track it," he added, setting his jaw. "And maybe even get a lock."

Dixon nodded his approval. Then, as Marshall began to type with his usual ferocity, he was struck with a queasy feeling in his gut. "Was there someone with Vaughn for his retrieval mission?"

The typing stopped. "Paul Lefcourt," came the reply.

Dixon felt his mouth suddenly dry. "Lefcourt? The NSC liaison?"

"I think so. What is it?"

"What's he doing on this?" Dixon asked, almost to himself.

"Sir?"

"Paul Lefcourt is under suspension by the NSC. Has been for nearly six months." Dixon reached for his phone, and dialed rapidly. "Get me Edgars at NSC, right now," he said.

A beep drew Marshall's attention, then a smile formed. "Mr. Dixon? I have a lock. He's five miles east of Indianola, Nebraska, right along U.S. Highway 6."

Dixon leaned toward him. "Contact Nebraska State Patrol. Tell them we have a Federal agent in need of urgent aid." Then he was drawn back to his phone, as Marshall began to type furiously. "Wally? It's Marcus. I need a favor." Then, after an obvious objection, he said, "Because one of your guys might be trying to kill one of mine."

As he was talking, Marshall saw the PDA come to life before him. "Mister – um – Mister Dixon? I've gotta – uh – go – " he said, palming the gadget and dashing from the room.

"Marshall?" Dixon called after him. "Marshall!"

* * *

Webber shook his head. "Henri, how many times do I have to tell you – that wasn't my doing. And I compensated you." 

"I lost three men," Henri said. "I had to disappear myself for nearly two years. Whatever compensation you paid me, it wasn't enough." Then his voice dropped to a low growl. "And then I find that."

He gestured at the case, making Webber glance into it, and when he saw the open dossier, the blood drained from his face. When his eyes rose again, he saw Henri again, this time with his pistol drawn, and aimed right between Webber's eyes.

"_Au revoir_, CIA," Henri muttered.

A loud bang bounced through the space, and Henri, suddenly stricken, toppled over. The yellow light made the blood look black as it saturated the back of his windbreaker.

Then a spray of bullets from the men with the MP-5s, slugs ricocheting off doors and tearing through anything soft. Webber dove for cover behind the barrier, knocking the case off its precarious perch. Faux strands of pearls rained on the cold ground, just before the aluminum case hit with a hollow thud.

Webber held his crouch next to the briefcase full of costume jewelry as more bullets pinged and zinged over and around him. He looked back from his position of relative safety toward the stairwell that Sydney was standing behind. He could see the pistol in her hand, and the hard look in her eyes, even as she peeked out to assess her situation.

Then her voice rang through the abandoned subway station, as clear as a bell: "**Coming up!**"

And suddenly, time was no longer an issue. Webber saw the blur of her movements, and he leapt to his feet and started to provide cover fire from his M-16 as she sprinted from the safety of her hiding place. It was a wild burst of shots, no real control to them, but then again, he didn't need to hit anything. Just keep their heads down.

Sydney was firing her Beretta with efficiency, though. It was like she was seeing every target just before it realized it had been seen. And she was knocking them down. Then she was at his side, and they both dropped behind the concrete barricade.

"We can't stay here," she said, as the return fire zinged over their heads. "Clips?"

"Two more for the rifle," Webber said.

"One left for me," she said, gritting her teeth. "Damn ribs. Gotta go see a doctor after this."

"How many bad guys left?"

"Three. I think." More fire over them. The concussion of bullets crashing into it was causing the barrier to develop long cracks. "Where's the watch?" Sydney asked.

"He didn't have it. We were set up," Webber replied.

"Then we're getting out of here," Sydney said, emptying her pistol into the vast space before them.

"Door's that way, at the top of the stairs," Webber said. "Behind them."

"Then we can't screw this up, can we?" Sydney rolled her head, popping her neck. "There's a concrete support post about thirty feet ahead and to the right, remember?"

"Yeah. In a line with about five more, and beyond that, who knows."

Sydney took a few deep breaths. "When I say go, you throw down suppression, and I'll run. As soon as I'm at the post, I'll cover you. We'll bound up, and we'll get through 'em."

"What if we go dry before we can get there?"

Sydney smirked at that. Her muscles tensed, becoming coiled energy. "**GO!**" she cried. And then she was a blur.

* * *

"Agent Weiss?" Marshall fairly shouted from the doorway as he burst through it. "We've got a pulse transmission off that disk that Webber burned coming from what appears to be a subway stop." 

Jack shot an icy glare at Weiss. "How strong is it?" he asked.

"Not strong," Marshall replied, leaning over the handler's shoulder and rapidly typing in coordinates. "But not moving, either."

A detailed map appeared on-screen, with a faint blip appearing in the center. "That stop's closed for renovation," the handler said. "And only about thirty blocks from here."

"That's where we're going," Jack said. "Weiss, grab two men and meet me in the garage." He leaned over the handler's shoulder. "Notify Ops, give them location, tell them we need a small tactical squad there ASAP, and that we're en route."

"Agent Bristow?" Marshall said, holding out the PDA. "Take this. It's locked on the frequency, and'll give you precise directions."

"Thanks," Jack barely said, as he snatched the gizmo from Marshall's hand.

"Just – just tap the 'M'," Marshall replied weakly, and to no one in particular. Then he was off again.

* * *

Webber rose just a bit and began peppering the distance with short bursts from his rifle. When he noticed that Sydney had reached the post, he shouted, "Coming up!" and coaxed his aching knees into motion. 

On his word, Sydney opened fire, squeezing off round after round, until she felt his hip press against hers. She felt the click of an empty chamber. "Mine's toast," she hissed, letting the heavy steel drop from her hand and clatter on the cold concrete.

"Now what?"

"We keep going." And she sprinted ahead again. Webber held his position and continued his three-round bursts until he saw her touch the next support, which was becoming harder to do in the growing darkness. He took another heavy breath, and pushed against the straining of his calves, sensing bullets nipping at his heels.

* * *

Marshall found Dixon hunched over the viewscreen, tracking the boosted signal. "Where the hell – " he started. 

"Urgent situation, sir, I'm sorry," was the reply – apologetic, but not forthcoming. Just as ordered.

"Did you – "

"I've already made contact with the Nebraska authorities – they're saying that the roads are considered impassable at this time."

"So they won't send help?"

"The storm is too severe." Marshall brought up a weather radar screen. "See this bright white? That's a massive blizzard. Gale force winds, heavy snow, blowing and drifting…"

"Damn it," Dixon said, through his teeth.

"But they've contacted the county sheriff's office and they're attempting to coordinate some sort of action as quickly as possible."

"So in the meantime – "

Marshall looked at Dixon. "We have to wait."

* * *

"When we arrive," Jack said to Weiss, who was gripping the steering wheel, weaving and dodging bikes and cabs, "I want you and Agent – " Jack stopped and crooked a thumb at the man behind the driver. 

"Clifford," the agent said, responding to the gesture.

" - to stay on the perimeter, and wait for the tac squad. Agent - "

"Nyquist," the other man said.

" – you're with me," Jack said, returning his attention to the PDA. "Take this left here. We're fifteen blocks out."

Weiss glanced over at his superior, then back to the streets ahead. "With all due respect, Mr. Bristow, I'd rather go with you – "

"I do not care what you would rather do," Jack glowered back. "Until this situation is one hundred percent unfucked, you are going to follow every instruction I give to the letter. Understand me?"

Weiss stared straight ahead. "Yes, sir. Waiting for the tac squad. Sir."

Jack drew his pistol from its shoulder holster, slammed a clip into it, and pulled back the slide. "Anybody else want to tell me what they'd rather do?" he asked.

* * *

The walk was turning into a slog. Vaughn's hands and feet felt like chunks of granite. He was moving so slowly now - mostly from exhaustion, but also from the inability to see - that he had to fight the urge to simply stop and collapse into the white. 

And then he tripped over the form in the snow. "Lefcourt?" Vaughn said, his voice so tired, it didn't sound like it belonged to him. He pulled himself off the body, and rolled it over. It was indeed the other man, now a lifeless mass of fractured bones and freezing flesh.

Through the snow, somehow, he could see the red taillights of a pickup truck, stopped at the side of the road. At first, Vaughn couldn't quite believe what he was seeing, but then he saw the lights slowly approaching, and he realized it wasn't a bizarre hallucination. He began patting Lefcourt's coat, and found the curve of the fountain pen.

_**Thank God.**_

"Oh, Jesus in Heaven," a voice cried from above. "Fella? You all right?"

"Sir?" Vaughn tried to call, and failed. "Sir? I…need your…" he said, as he felt himself succumbing to unconsciousness.

* * *

Sydney's eyes were beginning to feel strained. It seemed odd to her that the light would be dimmer as she grew closer to the door, but that was indeed the case. Soon her steps slowed as the light had all but vanished. She didn't want to take a wrong step and find herself either face down, flat on her back, or worst of all, very, very dead. 

Each step was now carefully considered, and she was listening for any sounds beyond her own.

Behind her: nothing. Webber hadn't moved from the last post. He also had stopped providing cover fire – probably because he was running out of ammo. She tried to keep her breaths as deep as possible; the darkness seemed to be swallowing the air, too. It wasn't quite panic that she was feeling – it was more akin to a creeping dread, and that was enough to make her lungs begin to shrivel a bit.

Suddenly, her hands found another cold pillar. Her pulse slowed in relief. She felt her weight slumping against the concrete, and she had to stiffen her back to keep from falling over. She pressed her body against the cylinder and smoothed her way across the surface, letting her fingers guide her way around it.

Then, like her skin had a sensor ring around it, she felt a warmth and softness. Not against her yet, but inches from her fingertips. And breathing. Not heavy, but heavier than hers.

Her mind raced with options. If Webber was out of ammo, or if he was following and had fallen behind, and she called out for help, she might be dead before the cry escaped her throat. If she tried to go around this mystery man, and misstepped, she'd take a bullet in the back. Right now, he didn't seem to notice her presence. That was her only real advantage.

So Sydney kept her breaths in time with his, and clung to the post for as long as she could. Then, with as much force as she could muster, she flung her weight around the post, and using the energy from her momentum, swung the inside of a fist at the place she guessed she'd find his sternum.

When she felt not cloth but skin, with tough rings of tissue beneath, she knew she had struck him higher than she'd expected. But it would be an even more palpable hit. The henchman gagged and wheezed, and crashed on to his knees, clutching his throat. The shock of a blow to the larynx, then his inability to catch his breath had caused him to collapse.

It was the best opening Sydney could have hoped for. Hearing where he'd fallen, she swung an axe kick on to the back of his neck, wanting to put him out of commission. His head made an unpleasant thwack on the ground, ultimately confirming Sydney's intent. She dropped to a knee next to his very unconscious form and patted him down. She unclasped his MP5 from its sling, and snatched the pistol from his hip holster.

A heavy footfall behind her caused her to swing around, pistol in hand. She felt the edge of the muzzle press into flesh. She tightened her fingertip on the trigger, just as she heard Webber's voice come from above her. "Syd," he whispered. "That's my crotch."

She wanted to say something cleverly emasculating, but didn't, deciding instead to lower the weapon, and rising to meet him.

* * *

Vaughn woke in a warm pickup cab. The air was heavy with the smell of cheap cigars and alcohol. A middle-aged man in heavyweight coveralls was next to him on the bench seat, pouring coffee from a Thermos bottle into a well-worn mug. 

"Are you all right, fella?" the man asked. "Looks like you were in a nasty accident."

"Yeah," he said. Suddenly, he felt a rush of fear. "My traveling companion, is he – "

"He was struck by this very pickup truck. The driver found you on top of the body. He put you in the cab. Your friend, he put in the bed." He crooked a thumb back toward the rear of the vehicle.

Vaughn didn't have to look. "So he's dead."

"For some time, too. Poor Joe, he didn't see your buddy until it was too late. Bad weather like this, you're supposed to stay with your vehicle. Cuts down on accidents, you know," he said, holding out the steaming mug.

"I'm sorry about Joe," Vaughn replied, taking a big swig.

The man in the coveralls took a long look at him. "So you're Michael Vaughn," he finally muttered.

Startled, he nearly spit the coffee all over the truck's interior. "Yes. How – "

The man smirked. "We've been looking for you."

The CB radio squawked. "Base to Pratt. Base to Pratt. You out there?"

"Just a minute." He picked up the mouthpiece. "This is Pratt, go ahead."

"Are you at the Howell place?" a male voice asked. "Sheriff's looking for you."

The man looked squarely into Vaughn's eyes and said, "No, I'm pulled over near Rep Valley."

"Joe Howell just called the office, said you were there in his Quonset hut. He was sounding pretty near tears. Talking about some accident he had."

A bigger smirk. "Sounds to me like he's into the apple brandy again."

There was a bit of static on the other end, then the voice continued, "Yeah, that's what we figure. Could you check on him anyway?"

"I'll swing by his place when the storm clears, straighten it out. If he calls back, tell him I'll be there when I'm able."

"Okay, as soon as you can."

"Right. Pratt out." He reset the mouthpiece, and turned the key in the ignition. The pickup's engine roared to life. "We need to get you on your way." He reached into his coat and withdrew the pen. "And when you get there, tell Marcus Dixon hello, and that he owes me."

Vaughn grasped the cylinder and stuffed it into his pocket. "How are you going to – "

Pratt threw the truck into gear and zoomed out of the steel building into the dark winter night. "Storm's over in North Platte. Agency's sending a plane. Should be there by the time we arrive. Just relax." He put the truck into gear and pulled onto the icy highway, beginning to pick up more speed than seemed safe to Vaughn's shredded nerves. "And put your seat belt on," he added, with a tiny smile.

* * *

"We aren't here for a shootout, Nyquist," Jack said as he and the blond agent exited the vehicle and started down the stairs. "What I want you to do is stay on my hip, and we'll do a standard two-man entry." 

"Right, sir," the young agent replied. Jack noticed the crispness of his diction. An educated man.

Jack moved into the meat of his speech as they approached the hole in the iron fencing. "We don't have a number of tangoes, and I don't know how this is laid out, so we need to be prepared – "

The sudden darkness stunned him. It was like someone had cut away whatever light there was - the natural and the artificial - then wrapped heavy sackcloth around his head, just to complete the effort. He went to his comms. "Weiss, are you reading me?" When he let off the talkswitch, nothing back static came back to his ears. "Agent Weiss, do you read me?"

Back in the car, Eric was fiddling with the steering wheel when Jack's call came through. It was in pieces, and full of static. "Agent Bristow?" he asked. "I can barely hear you."

Clifford pressed his earpiece further into his own ear. "I can't hear him, either," he said.

Weiss opened his door and stepped out, speaking louder. "Say again, Agent Bristow. You're breaking up."

Nyquist was shaking his head. "It's like we're behind something so dense we can't get a transmission past it. I mean, I know he said something, but damned if I know what it was."

"Either there's interference because we're too far underground, or frequency's been jammed," Jack said, keeping his voice flat. "That's why we couldn't pin down a location before."

"So now what?"

"Tactical squad's on the way," Jack said. "And we need to secure a front door for their entry." He took a few steps into the emptiness ahead of them.

He heard a click behind him, then saw an intense beam of light pierce the void. Jack turned to see Nyquist's face, somewhat illuminated. "Mini Mag-Lite," the younger man said, a grin spreading across his face. "Troop 18 Eagle Scout of the Year, 1992." He held the flashlight out for Jack to take.

"Stay on my hip," Jack replied tonelessly, grasping the aluminum tube, clenching it, then crossing his wrists, using one to support the other.

* * *

Sydney stayed in the lead, continuing to count posts. When Webber butted up against her on the sixth, she turned back toward him. She could feel his face near hers, and it made her a little queasy. "Bad guy count?" she asked. 

"How many, you mean?"

"Yeah. We saw seven, right?"

"Uh-huh. It was down to three when we started this odyssey."

"How about when you were keeping heads down?"

"I know I got one."

"I heard another fall when I was covering you."

"And with Mr. Unlucky back there…"

"That's all of them. Right?"

"If my first-grade math teacher wasn't lying to me about the basics of subtraction."

"And this is the sixth post. We've got maybe two left," Sydney said. She peered back into the darkness. Indeed, unless her imagination was taking possession of her visual cortex, she had seen a flash of light. "See that?" she indicated.

"What?" Webber asked.

"A light, coming from above. Less than five hundred feet, I'm thinking."

Webber peered into the dark. A flicker of light, then nothing. "Three-to-five hundred," Webber replied. Damn it, he thought. Someone had found them.

"We'll bound to the next post, and hopefully when we get there, we can go back-to-back up the stairs, and that'll be our exit."

"Then that's the move," he replied. "Lead the way."

As Sydney slowly advanced, Webber's hand tightened around his M-4's handgrip. Henri's personal vendetta had cost him a clean getaway and a fall guy for Sydney's murder. Now he was running out of the time he'd needed to eliminate her. He could still pin it on Henri or one of his men, but the clock was ticking.

If he was going to kill her, he'd have to do it now. He listened carefully for her breathing and steps, and dropped to a knee to focus his attention.

* * *

Jack was using the flashlight sparingly – no need to let any sentries know that someone had wandered into their lair. He'd snap it on for a second or two to sweep through the space to check for obstacles of any sort, and to take a quick lay of the land, then cut the light for a minute or so to advance in the space, zig-zagging across the floor. 

He noticed that Nyquist hadn't left him. He could hear the younger agent's breaths shortening. "Calm down. Don't start panicking," he said.

"I'm sorry, sir," the young man replied. "It's my first real action."

"And it'll be your last if you start hyperventilating," Jack said, clicking on the light again.

This time as he swept, his light found forms – one had his back to Jack and Nyquist, the other was approaching a post at the bottom of the stairs. Still another was aiming an assault rifle. Jack recognized the one approaching the post.

_Sydney_, Jack thought.

"FEDERAL AGENTS!" he cried, training his weapon on the rifleman.

_Dad?_ Sydney's mind stumbled over the relief she was feeling. Her eyes caught the edge of a flashlight beam, and the form that interrupted the light. She dove behind the next pillar and tried to catch her breath.

_Son of a bitch,_ Webber thought, hearing Jack's voice ringing through the air, and seeing Sydney – barely – as she disappeared behind the next post, into a position he couldn't hit. And while he'd be able to hit Jack, just his presence with another agent made it clear that more were coming. Webber felt his blood simmering. He knew that now he'd have to wait.

The henchman, startled by the light, pulled his weapon from its holster and spun to face the voice. He met Jack's bullets on the way. They tore into his gray-green camouflage shirt, and he collapsed to his knees, then fell face-first on to the stairs, and his piece clattered as it tumbled out of his dead hand.

Then, as if on cue, a swarm of black-clad figures with automatic weapons flowed into the space, coming down the stairs, flashlights and laser sights dancing with their every step. Jack frowned at no one in particular, then turned and began to make the trek back outside. Sydney and Webber met at the base of the stairs.

"I don't like that look," Webber said, as they started to climb.

"It's one of his patented 'disappointed' faces," Sydney replied. "I only saw it once or twice, and that's when I was a girl." Her voice became very soft. "It means we're about to take a beating," Sydney replied.

* * *

The deputy hadn't lied. By the time they reached the small airport just outside North Platte, Nebraska, a small, untagged jet was rolling towards the tiny terminal. Vaughn looked at Pratt. "Thanks for the help," he said, extending his still-aching hand. 

Pratt grasped it gently, and leveled a hard gaze into the younger man's eyes. "Don't lose the pen again, Mr. Vaughn," he said, turning on his heel and walking out of the building.

Vaughn watched him go, then tucked that cold hand into his pocket and reassured himself that the pen was still there. Then he made his way to the plane, stretching his legs to keep the blood flowing. He looked at the clock above the closed ticket window. 11:25, it said. He felt a small flicker of dread in the memory of his orders. It was late, and his day wasn't over by a mile.

* * *

Jack was just getting warmed up in the off-site debrief location, a Winnebago RV parked at a construction site in New Jersey. "Reckless disregard. That's what that's called. And the three of you know better." His eyes scanned the faces of the younger agents, and paused a little longer on Sydney's. 

Webber could take no more. "Mr. Bristow, I believed we were running out of time."

"Believed?" Jack's sneer was razor-sharp.

"Henri Courant was one of my top sources," Webber explained. "We worked together on multiple occasions over the last five years. If he was making contact about it, then I was sure that he had the watch. And I was equally sure that if I didn't meet with him, we'd lose him."

"But he didn't have the watch, did he, Agent Webber?"

"No, sir."

"And now, he's dead."

"Better him than us," Webber replied.

"That remains to be seen."

"You gave us free reign to pursue leads. That's what we were doing."

Jack seized on that. "No, you were playing James fucking Bond. Pursuing leads doesn't entail putting your lives and the lives of other agency officers in jeopardy so you can work out your hero issues and other such bullshit."

"What were we supposed to do then?" Webber's voice rose. "Just sit on that intel, wait for him to do whatever he was going to do?"

"No. You have a lead, you talk to me," Jack replied. "We work out a solution. As a team. Christ, how long have you worked for the agency? It's in the damn manual. Protocols have to be followed."

"Respectfully, sir, then we should have been held to those standards from the inception of this operation. If we are to follow protocols."

"Did you believe your contact when he told you he had the watch? He gave you no reason to believe otherwise?"

"I believed him, yes."

"Then you should've come to see me before any of this happened." Jack shook his head. "Hell, as soon as he reached out to you, you should've let me know. And if you, Agent Weiss, saw that he wasn't going to do that, you had a duty to tell me." Weiss tried to hide in his hand, but to no avail. Jack again lowered a disappointed gaze at his daughter. "And so did you." She frowned, but said nothing. Jack continued, on a roll. "Instead, everybody kept their mouth shut to preserve God knows what, and now, we're no closer to the watch or any of the people who are seeking it, and any intelligence that Courant could have given us went to the grave with him." Jack frowned. "We've already lost too many of our people in this. I sure as hell do not want to have to attend any more funerals. We are trying to catch a traitor here, not just you and you and you, and the agency does not need any loose cannons."

Webber stifled a snort. Jack shot a dagger at him with his eyes. Sydney tried to break the tension. "So what do you want us to do?"

"Sydney, you're staying in New York to brief your replacement."

"Replacement?" She hadn't been expecting that.

"Webber, you are being moved to the Los Angeles office, effective immediately. Weiss, you're to report to the Director's office at Langley at nine a.m. tomorrow for foreign reassignment."

Webber took to his feet. "What? The bastard who murdered our agents is still out there. And he's laughing his ass off."

Jack's voice was cold. "Your plane leaves in two hours, Agent Webber; I suggest you pack. Quickly."

* * *

"Mr. Dixon?" Marshall whispered. "Vaughn's on his way." 

"He's aware that we're under orders to park him in few locations?" Dixon asked, as if this plan made sense to him. Sure, it's Jack's call, he thought, but do we have to do it like this?

"He's not happy about it, but yeah. Minneapolis is stop one. The remainder are being kept confidential until he's en route," Marshall replied, with a tone equal to his supervisor's.

"His contacts have already been notified?"

"Yes. Each one will accompany him from stop to stop, to maintain security."

"When's his New York ETA?"

"Three p.m. tomorrow. Then they'll jump him to Langley for a full debrief."

"And he has the pen?" This question was the only one that made any sense to Dixon.

"That's confirmed. And it isn't leaving his sight anytime soon," Marshall replied. He understood why that part mattered, if not the rest of it.

* * *

Sydney looked out the RV window at the waiting car. Webber and Weiss were sitting in the front seat, complaining aloud to each other, she was sure. "Why are you being so rough on them?" 

Jack grunted. "Rough, Sydney? If was being rough, I'd have been passing out pink slips. And secondly, they screwed up. So did you. Take your medicine and stop complaining about who's doing what to whom, and how unfair it is."

"Fine. So what am I supposed to do, after I brief my replacement?"

"You'll come with me to Baltimore."

She was silent for a moment. "Why?"

"Surveillance. I need you to help keep an eye on Gilchrist. He's meeting his connection in an abandoned warehouse there." 

"So we'll sit in a car together for God knows how many hours. Delightful."

Jack shook his head. "We'll operate separately. It's likely that someone from Langley will be calling you."

"For a debrief on today," Sydney said.

"It's going in the report. You might not like it, but it is."

Sydney snorted. "I never thought I'd see the day when the great Jack Bristow turned into just another suit who didn't have the guts to back his people. But I was obviously mistaken."

"People often are," Jack replied.

* * *

Webber didn't look at Weiss when he talked. "That son of a bitch." 

Weiss frowned a bit. "I know you're pissed, Frank, but – "

"But nothing. I'm so sick of that asshole and his holier-than-thou shit. Pushing us around like we're fucking interns. Nobodies. Fuck him. Fuck him, and fuck going to L.A."

"That's your assignment, like it or not," Sydney said, appearing in the seat behind them. Webber noticed that he hadn't even heard her. _Damn it_, he thought. _If Jack hadn't blown his shot_… "And in case you forgot, you can't just skip out on a CIA assignment," she continued.

"No matter how you feel about the prick who gave it to you," Weiss said.

Sydney shot a look at her friend, then turned her attention back to both men. "My father has tasked me to travel with him to Baltimore. We're going to be keeping separate eyes on Gilchrist."

"Separate," Webber said.

"And I'm probably going to be pulled away during," she replied. Sydney's pager went off. She looked at it sadly. "It's Marshall. I have to leave."

"Then go. We're on top of this," Webber said.

"Don't do anything stupid," she said, climbing out of the car and slamming the door.

Webber sensed his opportunities slipping away. It was time to play his trump card. "Eric. You and me – we're on the same side, right?"

"I hope so," Weiss replied.

"About Cathy and Rick, I mean."

"What's this about?"

"I just need some – reassurance."

Weiss gritted his teeth. "You know I'm with you on this."

"Good," Webber said. "I'm not going to L.A. If Gilchrist is in Baltimore, then that's where this ends."

Weiss's eyes narrowed. "Are you serious?"

"Deadly," Webber replied.

"Then I'm coming with you," Weiss said.

"No."

"No? What do you mean, no?"

"You've got a future with the agency. My career, it's pretty much shot to hell. Jack Bristow is after my job – it's like a personal vendetta with him. So I've got to do this alone."

"Do what?"

"Gilchrist," Webber said. "He won't get away from me again."

"He won't get away? What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that I'll use any means necessary to bring a killer to justice – whether Gilchrist pulled the triggers or had someone else do it. He knows what happened, and he's going to tell me."

"Christ," Weiss said. "Listen to yourself. If you go rogue, there's no turning back."

"No offense, Eric, but you're sounding more like Jack every day," Webber replied.

Weiss sighed. "I won't just sit on the sidelines. If I can help you, you need to let me."

Webber leaned over to Weiss. "Okay. Go to Langley like Bristow ordered. As soon as you're out of your meeting, get a car, and drive into Baltimore." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper and a pen, and started to write. "Go to this address."

Weiss took the paper from Webber, a frown forming on his lips. "A coffee shop? What will I do there?"

Webber's smile mirrored the other man's expression. "Drink coffee. Have a hot dog. And make a phone call for me."

**TO BE CONTINUED…**


End file.
